One Hundred Years of Solitude
by Questioning.Silence
Summary: Eragon and Saphira return to Ellesmera on the eve of the Agaeti Blodhren to visit the land they left behind. Angela gives some unsought advice, Arya picks a fight, flowers reveal a secret, and everyone ends up a lot better off than in Paolini's novel.
1. Chapter 1

_I, like many people, was less than thrilled by the conclusion of the Inheritance series. I wrote this months ago but have only recently found the time and confidence to post it. Expect 4-6 chapters. _

* * *

One hundred years were dust in the wind. One hundred years had flown past on wings too swift to catch, and, once past, forever vanished in the folds of time.

Eragon swept the morbid thoughts abruptly aside and focused on the countryside flashing past him. With every flap of Saphira's vast wings, the wind stung his tired, dry eyes and he blinked furiously. Unwilling to miss even a moment, he stared at the stunning vista of endless plains and scattered brush that existed far below the world of sky and wing.

He had thought he would never see Alagaesia again, never fly over its high, arching peaks or sprawling cities.

And yet, here he was.

_Enough, Little One. _Saphira reprimanded him gently.

_It feels so strange to be back. _He admitted, sinking back in Saphira's saddle and wrapping his arms pensively around one of her spikes.

_We don't have to do this._

_ I want to._

Saphira snorted and a thin blue flame shot into the air.

_Okay, _you_ want to._

She snorted again, but more carefully this time, and returned her attention to the sky before them.

Perhaps it was true that Eragon hadn't wished to return. The scars of the war had never really healed in his heart. Yet, somehow, he felt compelled, driven to return.

After leaving Alagaesia, their elven ship had encountered nothing—not land, not beast—for five and a half weeks. Finally, rising out of the mist that clung to the eastern ocean, a spire of black rock jutted sharply into the sky. The spire itself was not habitable, but another day's journey led them to an island, approximately twice the size of Vroengard, the Rider's former island base. Mor'ranr, as Blodgharm had seen fit to name it, was a land of great extremes. Snow-tipped mountains formed a ridge to the north, while a temperate forest thrived in the south.

In short, it was a land in which a broken heart might heal, in which the pain of war, betrayal, and death might retreat to a favorable distance. And Eragon had tried, as had Saphira.

Four wild dragons had hatched in the first two years, leaving them and the elves with plenty to do.

A year later, another elven ship had found Mor'ranr, bringing with it an Urgal Rider and another human. Apparently, dragons weren't quite ready for dwarves yet.

The exchange had taken place: the two Riders and dragons to stay and another three eggs to be sent to Alagaesia. Two elven spell-casters had also returned, yearning for their native land.

And so time passed.

Ships had arrived a half dozen more times over the next nine decades. Each time Eragon saw the sails appear out of the mist, his heart leapt.

Maybe, just maybe… But the queen of the elves never visited. Nor would she ever, Eragon grew to believe. Yet each time the inhabitants of the ship disembarked, his stomach twisted in bitter disappointment.

One hundred years was a long time. Time to reflect on youth and folly, truth and love. Time to regret foolish mistakes and rash judgment.

It was not enough time, however, for Eragon to forget_ her_.

Most relationships do not last one hundred years. His relationship, he supposed, was rather a non-relationship, but it endured the absence of a century, undiminished and intact.

And so returning now was… painful. There was a part of him that yearned simply to be in her presence once again, and a part such as significant that wished to remain as far away as possible. The passing years had numbed the ache that separation had caused. Was he indescribably stupid to return and destroy the immunity of sorts that he had so painstakingly gained?

But it was good to return on the eve of the Agaeti Blodhren. In the festivities, rejoicing, and hysteria, he would simply be another face in the crowd of visitors. He could see… whomever he chose. And… certain individuals… wouldn't have to see him. Although Blodgharm and the other elves fro Mor'ranr would also be arriving, they had promised to remain in the shadows and not broadcast their presence to anyone there.

Saphira knew the somber direction of Eragon's thoughts but remained silent, merely extending her sympathy to his troubled mind.

Eventually they approached Ceris and the elven outpost contained therein.

While still hidden amongst the trees, Eragon gathered his will and slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to alter his appearance. He grew several inches taller and lightened his hair to the color of straw. Utilizing a still pool of water that had gathered in the bole of a tree, he gauged his reflection and carefully elongated his ears and nose by a fraction of an inch. Transformation complete, Sapphira left Eragon and slipped into the sky, quietly following him from afar for the rest of their journey.

Anonymity was what Eragon found himself craving suddenly. Pure anonymity. Not simply to lurk in the shadows as he had considered before, but to be so shadow-like, so utterly camouflaged with the rest of the elven race that he could move anywhere and everywhere at will.

Eragon greeted the elven watcher, a fair-haired lithe young male named Derren, cordially at the outpost. The polite yet cool greeting he received in response convinced him that his disguise was highly effective. As the watcher accompanied him to Ellesmera, Eragon slowly gained the confidence of the elf. Over the course of their week-long journey, they formed what might even be described as a true friendship, albeit new and faintly-formed.

One evening, Eragon showed him the piece of art he had prepared for the celebration. The elf's eyes locked onto the frame and remained there for an indefinite of time, scrutinizing every minute detail of the work. Upon looking away from it, Derren had looked at Eragon and—there was no other word for it—beamed. For the next several hours, he'd waxed eloquent about the beauty, the grandeur, the awe of Eragon's work of art. Privately, Eragon was pleased by the reception, if not a little embarrassed. If the others expressed even half of the appreciatation of his new-found friend, he would consider the time spent upon the piece to be worthwhile.

His questions posed ever-so-carefully to his new friend were subtle yet prodding. Derren, with the mental acuity of any elf, could see that Eragon knew a substantial amount of information about Du Weldenvarden and its inhabitants yet clearly wanted more. However, the habitual courtesy also so typical of the elven race prevented him from bringing out this fact. Derren's responses mirrored Eragon's questions. Their average conversation was not so much a conversation as a battle waged with needle thin swords. For every hint of information gleaned by one, the other received twice as much, yet promptly was outmaneuvered by the other.

From this, Eragon gained a fuzzy but accurate view of life in Alagaesia since he had left over nine decades previously. The human monarchy was tolerable; all its rulers died so quickly that momentary inconveniences between elves and men merely had to wait for a descendant to take the throne before a compromise might be achieved. With expected disdain, Derren informed him that the dwarves were still holed up in the South. The Urgals seemed content in their new lands. The few dragons were flourishing, thanks to the efforts of Eragon Shadeslayer on the faraway island of Mor'ranr. The elven queen was greatly beloved and displayed wisdom and diplomacy far beyond her years.

"Is she so young?" Eragon asked, feigning ignorance, "I remember her mate Evander was born long before my own father."

Derren eyed Eragon carefully, and finally asked his first direct question, "Has it been so long since you last walked our trails?"

Eragon studied the elf, "Aye," he murmured, "It has been a very long time."

"For the past hundred years, we have been ruled by Arya Drottning, daughter of the queen whom you knew. Queen Islanzadi was killed at the final battle. Surely you have heard of the Great War?"

"Yes, I have heard it mentioned but know little of most events." Though Eragon's tone was modulated, he could not prevent a tiny sign of relief from flashing across his face as the sound of his own voice reached his ears. He had feared the half-truth would be stopped by the wards of the Ancient Language. Invoking the power of the language's true name would easily have allowed him to lie, but it would have been difficult to do so without raising Derren's suspicions. Perhaps the fact that he, as one person, had only seen the war from his perspective allowed him to bypass the wards.

Derren's face shadowed slightly, "It was a terrible saga. One that nearly destroyed us. But for our queen and the Rider Eragon, we would have been swept from this land." His tone signaled that particular conversation's end.

* * *

_Next chapter: Eragon enters Ellesmera and doesn't find quite what he expected._


	2. Chapter 2

_So, as a reviewer pointed out, I probably ought to mention that this is "ExA". Paolini... Ugh. Who writes a love story without a happy ending? What sad, miserable existence would exist for the rest of us lesser mortals if even fictional romances ended tragically? There's enough of that in real life._

_Sorry. Rant concluded. Thank you so much, everyone who reviewed._

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Two days later, the column-like immensity of the trees began imperceptibly to morph into homes and halls lodged in the ancient wood. Flowers twined over log and rock, and even the soil seemed springier. With each step, the magic lavished in expectation of the impending celebration lifted Eragon's spirits. Derren, too, was quick to smile, to laugh at a trilling bird perched at the tip of a small sapling. The streams ran clear and cold, bubbling and splashing at the whim of excess magic.

Slowly, he noticed them. Elves, flitting about in the clearings, skipping lightly around the boles of forest monoliths. Their bright, angled eyes; their dancing walk; and their high, lilting voices created a vision of ethereal beauty. Eragon, so accustomed to his own appearance and that of the few elves with whom he'd spent the better part of the last century, drank in the vivid and musical display before him.

"We will present ourselves to her majesty," said Derren quite calmly as they entered the city. He did not command, but neither was his sentence posed as a question.

Eragon felt his stomach clench into a tight knot. He bit the inside of his cheek repeatedly, worrying off little bits of skin as they approached the center of Ellesmera. The faux happiness produced in him by the presence of so much magic withered and died when exposed to the reality of his memories. He had not expected to see her so quickly, had, in fact, never decided whether he intended to speak to her at all.

Maybe he should never have come. She had made her choice, and he had made his, yet every word of her true name remained burned into his blood all these years later. Every time he decided to leave without speaking to her, he remembered again her name and felt a foolish flicker of hope. Maybe, some feeling for him remained in the elven queen. Or perhaps, he reminded himself, there was never any feeling—in the way he wished—in the first place.

And then they were there.

Eragon followed Derren into the same hall he'd visited the very first time he'd stepped foot into Ellesmera. At the time, Islanzadi, in all her splendor, had sat upon the knotted throne. Now her daughter sat upon that very throne, greeting an endless line of visitors that stretched all the way to the entrance.

Her appearance had not changed in any way since they had parted. She still looked no older than twenty. Other than these most basic observations, Eragon could not form any more sentences to properly describe her appearance. He tore his gaze away as the anguish of a long separation revived in him. Unwillingly, however, his eyes would return to her face, and as the line shortened slowly, snaking its way up to the throne, he watched her every action.

Eragon wrapped ward after ward around his mind, shielding it in so many layers that not even a flicker of his thought would be visible without a direct attack. Slowly, he also regained his sense of reality and ability to think coherently without despair incapacitating his heart. That sense of helplessness, hopelessness, tethered him to his place and time, enabling him to watch calmly as Derren spoke to the queen and, as his turn came, to step dispassionately forward.

"It is our pleasure to host you in our halls," she said, in a tone that Eragon had never before heard. More than anything, she sounded like Islanzadi. Her voice was... imperial? stately? Either way, it was as if the weight of the throne over the passing years had impressed its duty into her very voice.

"It is my honor to visit your eminent city," he replied with barely a second's hesitation, nodding his head politely.

"Derren-vodhr has informed us that you have created an exemplary piece of art for our celebration."

"He is too kind," answered Eragon politely, "My work is but a shadow compared to the beauty of Ellesmera."

"You are modest, perhaps."

"Not really, Your Majesty," he replied truthfully.

She inclined her head, her expression as smooth as ever, betraying nothing. Yet Eragon noted a spark of restlessness in the assembled lords and ladies around them. His sentences were constructed with the utmost care, but the fact remained that he had disagreed with their queen.

Upon comprehending this, he stifled the hint of a bitter smile that twitched onto his face. He belonged in no land: not amongst the elves, dragons, men, urgals, or dragons.

This realization made him bold. Instead of waiting for the Agaeti Blodhren, as was proper, he displayed his art immediately.

"It is here, Your Majesty." With a subtle flourish, he reached into his sleeve and retrieved a small square of metal. Smoothly and quickly, he began to unfold the square, which doubled in size until it was nearly as tall as a man. The resulting large square was shiny silver and sturdy, despite its thinness.

As soon as the last unfolding took place, the silvery finish began to shift. Colors swirled and coalesced into a mosaic of two dragons, twisting in the sky. One was azure and slightly larger than the other, a smaller emerald one. Though neither dragon moved physically, the slightest movement of the metal frame caused light to dance across the dragons' scales and background, sending the dragons into endless, effortless flight.

Eragon watched Arya's face as the picture formed. She sat upon the throne, immobile as a statue. Her body language gave away nothing, but her eyes drank in the scene before her. He realized she had stopped breathing. Around him, the elves murmured appreciatively at the work, his faux-pas relegated to the background, at least temporarily.

After several moments' viewing they turned to look at Arya. Still, she said nothing. Gazes flicked rapidly between the queen and the visitor, and they watched impassively. With a sudden thrill of surprise, Eragon realized they were nervous. She had not behaved as expected, and they worried that she had not approved, or that Eragon had given offense in some other way.

Just as surprising was Eragon's understanding, a half-second later, that he was unconcerned. Her approval was written in her eyes. So clearly was it written that he was surprised they could not see it. After one hundred years, he knew her better than anyone of them still.

She blinked, and her eyes snapped from the far away past into the present. She stared at him for a long moment. Finally, "Why did you choose those colors?" she asked calmly, but appreciatively enough that the assembled elves relaxed, almost imperceptibly.

"They were the only two colors I had," he said. While not precisely true, blue and green were the only colors he had in sufficient quantity to use, thereby allowing him to speak in the Ancient Language.

She eyed him, "What is the medium you used? I do not recognize it."

He smiled faintly, though the smile did not extend to his eyes, "Neither paint nor magic nor anything else I could think of would give the colors I desired. I used fragments of dragon eggs."

The mood in the throne room solidified into ice. "Excuse me?" Arya asked with perilous calm.

He understood. The only eggshell pieces they knew of were those that remained where they had shattered, unborn dragons murdered during the war between the elves and dragons, or else by Galbatorix. To use such fragments would invite eternal enmity between such an unfortunate individual and the entire elven race.

"Hatched eggs," he replied, matching her tone.

"And where did you find such eggs?" she asked, in a more moderate tone, though she raised one eyebrow so high that Eragon doubted it would ever return anywhere near her eye.

"I have traveled far," was his response.

She scrutinized him carefully, eyes slightly narrowed as they travelled across every aspect of his appearance. "I see," she said, nodding her head in a clear dismissal. He was certain that she was burning to ask more questions, but had dozens of other travelers to speak with before the celebration began later that night.

He bowed politely and exited the hall, moving to join the rest of the elves in their preparations for the upcoming festivities. He caught a fragment of Saphira's consciousness as she reunited with Firnen in the forest beyond. He hoped Firnen was shielding better, else Arya would know his identity.

He simply didn't know if he was ready for that yet. A very distinct part of him wanted to avoid any further contact.

And part of him wished passionately to speak to her as himself. Part of him wanted nothing more than to abdicate his position in Mor'ranr and live in Ellesmera with her for the rest of his life. How could love, so long unrequited and separated, still exist so strongly?


	3. Chapter 3

_Angela is my absolute favorite character, so I couldn't miss the chance to include her advice/comic relief in this chapter. Hope you enjoy._

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Eragon wandered throughout Ellesmera as dusk moved into night, a part of the excited atmosphere yet distinctly separate. Oromis was gone as was Glaedr, Islanzadi had fallen, and Arya sat upon the throne, a public personage expected to meet with all visitors.

Around Eragon, elves danced excitedly about in the light of thousands multi-colored lanterns; reuniting with old friends; casting spells; and singing to trees, plants, flowers and whatever else they might find. He was not drawn in. His human memories of the previous celebration were clouded with chaos and time, yet there was a distinctly different tone this time. He could not lose himself in the festive spirit. The events of his past weighed too heavily upon him for such lightness, and he walked amongst the ghosts of his memories.

He found himself, suddenly in a clearing. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that it was the same clearing in which he had met Arya at the end of the first Agaeti Blodhren, after the dragons had changed his shape.

He sat quietly upon a fallen log and remained there without moving for a period of time, whether minutes or hours; he was unsure. He didn't know what he had expected to gain from returning to Ellesmera, but it was not what he had found.

His mind was carefully barred. He trusted neither the fey attitude of the pre-Agaeti Blodhren nor the strange prodding of elves' minds, and so it was only the soft tap of footsteps on the pine-needle draped forest floor that alerted him to another presence.

Arya. She stood in the center of the clearing, staring up at the sky. The moon was bright enough to see most of her face.

Abruptly and without conscious thought, Eragon stood.

In her peripheral vision, Arya saw the silhouette detach itself from a log set in the shadows and she froze. "I did not know another was here," she said quietly, shifting onto her back foot in preparation to leave.

"I don't mind," murmured Eragon.

She hesitated, "You are the visitor who created the mosaic with dragon egg shells, yes?"

"Yes," he replied simply.

"It is an incredible work of art."

"I thank you."

She inclined her head again, and for some moments they simply stood, several feet apart, looking up at the sky.

Several more soft steps broke through the silence. "I apologize, my Queen," spoke the Lord Daethdr from the clearing's edge, "but there are several here who have traveled far from the East. They wish to meet you."

In the silver moonlight, Eragon saw the tiniest hint of an impossible hope dawn upon her face. "From Mor'ranr?"

Eragon's heart stopped as her voice broke slightly. Irritation flashed across her face at this weakness as she berated herself silently, memories she had thought long-buried reawakening in the face of the twisting blue and green dragons immortalized in Eragon's offering.

"No, Your Majesty," Daethdr replied gently. Eragon wondered how much he knew or suspected.

"Very well." Once again, Arya had complete control of her voice and expression. She turned back to Eragon, as if remembering that he was there. "I am glad that you have visited our celebration and entrusted us with such a beautiful picture."

Eragon's mind was still reeling from the last few moments. A single syllable and tiny facial expression had sent daggers into his carefully constructed façade of nonchalance. They had destroyed his deliberate focus and the surety that Arya had by now long forgotten him. Still, nothing was guaranteed…

She politely said farwell and turned to leave. Eragon almost took a step forward, checking himself at the last possible instant. Daethdr followed Arya without another word, leaving him alone in the clearing.

Moments later, Eragon too returned to the city. He watched from the shadows as she greeted the visitors, and then moved to stand right beside the Menoa Tree. Her serene face betrayed none of the answers Eragon desperately desired.

Did she know he was here? He thought not. But then, maybe… Did she still think of him as often as he thought of her? Had she _ever_ thought of him as much as he had of her? Was he an utter fool to still find himself head over heels in love? Was she happy, here, in a position she had never wanted?

The celebration began shortly afterward. The assembled elves watched breathlessly as Arya gathered a glowing orb of moonlight and directed it into the Menoa Tree. As one, the elves seemed to exhale and then jump joyfully into the midst of the celebration.

Eragon was pulled sharply into the festivities, forgetting his cares and regrets in the fierce music and dancing. Time passed sporadically, in strange fits and leaps, and also in long, dragging moments in which he recalled her face in the moonlight.

He remembered presenting his mosaic and the wild appreciation that had followed. He remembered eating airy delicacies constructed of honey and tiny bits of fruit. He remembered singing and jumping and spinning in endless circles and the beauty of the forest at night. He also remembered every moment he spotted _her_: speaking to a guest, half-glimpsed in the shadows, darting into a hall, or listening to a presentation.

She also had created a piece for the celebration. It was an anthology, of sorts, on the Great War. Her memories, imposed in clay, pigment, ink, and stone formed a comprehensive tale of the war's entirety. As much as she had remembered, she had inscribed. Her memories tinged the facts of the events, lending color and depth to simple scenes of violence or strategy. Ajihod, Islanzadi, Hrothgar, Orrin, Nasuada, Saphira… all were represented and depicted clearly.

Eragon watched in astonishment. The elves murmured amongst themselves, the shock of her work for once overcoming the insanity of the night. Arya's monument to the war was astounding and an amazing addition to the recorded history of their race. It was also an incredibly private and personal collection. Such memories, laid bare for anyone to see. Images of Galbatorix looming large in the citadel in Uru'baen, conversations among the high command, a raised carving of a gemstone rose… And all tinged with emotion that brought the work to life. The helplessness and fear when faced with the crushing power of Galbatorix's mind, the despair of the leaders desperate to beat the overwhelming odds, the panic of losing a friend in battle…

The elves were a race of reserved individuals. Even more than her countrymen, despite her time amongst the flamboyant race of men, Arya was a more private person than most. Her thoughts, emotions, and rationale all hidden beneath an impenetratable façade. Yet here it all was on display.

Conspicuously missing, however, were images and writings of Eragon. There was one of his flaming sword held aloft and another of him riding Saphira high above the clouds. Yet nothing more.

"Surprising, isn't it?" a voice to his left elbow asked mildly.

Angela, her round face framed by bouncing curls, stood beside him. Her bright eyes watched Arya intently. "She's changed, the queen has."

"What?" asked Eragon stupidly, rising to reality as if clawing to the surface of a lake.

"Arya Drottning," Angela said slowly, as if wondering how she managed to find such a dim-witted elf, "I've known her for a long time. I never would have believed that she had the strength to do this."

"What?" he repeated.

She raised an eyebrow, "She mentioned this project to me, but I never thought she'd have the courage to go through with it."

Eragon bristled. "She is one of the most courageous people I know."

Angela snorted. "Just because you're still enamored with her doesn't mean I have to be," she replied languidly with bright eyes and a knowing smile. Utterly speechless, Eragon gaped.

"You haven't changed a bit," she tsked, shaking her head.

He recovered himself, "Neither have you."

She smirked.

"How did you know?"

"That you're masquerading as a real elf?"

"You make me sound like a cheap actor."

"Thank goodness you're not. You'd starve. Actually," she frowned thoughtfully, "you'd probably be rich. People'd pay you to leave their towns alone."

"Please don't tell her I'm here."

She cocked her head to the side, "You haven't told anyone?" her tone conveyed both disbelief and displeasure.

"No," he replied softly, "I just…"

Angela eyed him for a minute, raking her eyes across his face and down to the sword belted at his waist. "She may be courageous, but you're not."

He sighed, "Angela…"

"Don't 'Angela' me. You _know_ I'm right. Let me guess. You didn't want to come. You still aren't sure whether you're actually going to talk to her or not. You're _afraid_."

"Of what?" he asked flatly, ignoring the accuracy of her previous statements.

"Of her rejecting you. Of her not caring. Of her having forgotten you. And so you'll have to go back to your little island upset and wishing you'd never come."

He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. "Yes," he murmured after a moment, "Probably."

The hard lines around her mouth and eyes softened. "She misses you," Angela admitted.

"It's been a hundred years."

"What is time to an elf?" the phrase echoed through Eragon's mind, though he could not remember who had first said it to him. "Furthermore" she continued, "just look at what she has created. Do you understand it? The meaning behind it?"

Eragon shook his head.

"They are forgetting. The people of Alagaesia, even the elves to an extent, are forgetting the War. Perhaps it is good to do so. Wounds heal best with time as does hatred."

Eragon frowned, trying to figure out if the last line was a grammatical mistake or if, like everything else with Angela, it had some other meaning.

"Still," she pressed on, "They should not forget. Already the dwarves bicker with men. Already the great-grandson of Nasuada has taken a few more privileges and rights than she. He is no Galbatorix, true, but that does not mean it cannot happen again.

"But there is more to it, I think. Notice how few times you make an appearance in her visible memories? She's hiding something. I don't know what," she flicked her hand dismissively, "but there's clearly _some_thing there that she wishes to hide from the rest of the world. Maybe it's hatred," she shrugged carelessly and Eragon rolled his eyes.

"And I think she's showing her people that she doesn't belong here. She accepted their invitation to reign but never wanted it. And this is her proving it to them. Her personality has never meshed with the rest. It doesn't matter though," her eyebrows knitted together, "because for some reason they love her all the more for it. I have never seen a monarch so dearly beloved."

The fey elves had resumed their celebration now, and Eragon could feel the music tugging at him. He strained to focus on Angela, who seemed unaffected.

"What would she do if she abdicated?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she replied pointedly.

The magic was clogging his mind. "How did you know it was me?" he asked again, realizing she'd never answered the question before.

She smiled. "You just look like Eragon. Something about the way you walk… and the incessant staring in the queen's direction. That might have tipped me off." And she slipped away into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks to reviewers! You guys make my day._

* * *

Another dawn rose and another dusk fell. The werelight faded into blackness, and as one body the elves sighed and seemed to slump down. They fled to their halls or the forest to sleep, and very quickly the center clearing was absolutely deserted.

Desiring anything but sleep, Eragon slipped through the eerie scene. Lanterns hung gaily around trees were dim. Objects lay discarded upon the ground, waiting for their owners to come retrieve them. The silence seemed to ring after the frantic pace of the last three days. All around, the natural vegetation was bright and full, renewed and refreshed. Even the trees stood taller.

The ghosts of the past seemed almost real in the stillness. He could almost see Islanzadi, disapproving; Oromis, smiling; Glaedr, teaching; Arya, proud. It was as if they might appear at any moment, needing only a breath of air to become flesh and blood.

Eragon wandered morosely, glad that Saphira was too far away to notice his pity party. As he walked aimlessly about, a fragment of distant song met his ears. He continued forward and the sound grew in volume.

It was a single woman, singing in a low, rich voice. The language was one he did not recognize, but the melody was compelling and intricate and the voice was irresistibly familiar. Padding silently amongst the faintly-trodden city paths, he found himself at the entrance of one of the grand halls.

The hall itself was constructed from enormous trees, the trunks of which had grown tightly together, entwining as they grew. Vines, flowers, and other vegetation climbed the trees, creating a living building.

Arya sat slightly to the left of him, only a few dozen feet inside the hall, surrounded by flowers of a hundred different colors. All had the same basic bell-shaped petals, but the similarities ended there. Some glittered like the sun's beams reflected on a river's surface; others shone like the moon. Some flowers seemed as deep red as blood or as pale blue as the wisp of a cloud.

As Eragon's head peered around one of the large tree boles that formed the framework of the hall, her eyes met his own. A moment later, she stopped singing.

"We do seem to encounter each other quite frequently," she noted coolly but without distaste.

He smiled faintly, ignoring his rapidly beating heart. "Yes," he acknowledged. Then, "Where did those come from?" he asked, motioning towards the flowers that suddenly curled themselves in a thousand different directions upon his words. He flinched.

She returned his faint smile upon noticing his discomfort. "They are… a pastime of mine." She stretched out a hand, and a vine wrapped itself loosely around her fingertips. A bud swelled rapidly on the edge of the vine and abruptly burst into bloom. This flower, in sharp contrast to its fellows, was colorless.

She smiled again, but this one was tinged with sadness. "A raven once saved my father's life. It was… years ago," she spoke while looking at the flower, and not at Eragon, "And my father granted him immortality. He lived with us for many years, even after my father's death. After my mother died though, it was as if…" she trailed off. "Immortality was something he no longer desired. He had a habit of seeing into the future—no more than in small fragments and limited visions, but the future nonetheless—and perhaps he saw nothing more of worth in his life. We sang him into a flowering plant, as he requested, but," she held up the flower entwined around her fingers, "he has never left us. Each blossom that you see here is a…" she frowned, searching for the words, "hint, if you will, of a person's fate."

Eragon, still standing just inside the hall, interpreted her story as an invitation to enter further. He stepped forward, touching the nearest flower with a gentle finger. The affectionate flower curled around his wrist and up to his elbow, its green-blue petals soft against his skin. He glanced a little wildly at Arya.

"They mean no harm," she reassured him, "However, they usually aren't quite this friendly," she frowned slightly, scrutinizing the flowers.

Eragon, remembering the raven Blagden all too well, had no doubts that they recognized him. Abruptly, he took another step forward, and a bright yellow flower joined the first. "There are so many," he observed, eying the myriads of flowers that covered the grounds and walls.

"Each flower represents a visitor. The plant blooms each time it meets a new person. The colors form a few minutes later," she said, motioning to the still-colorless flower upon her wrist.

A pink flower now twined its way up the vines of the first two flowers to rest in Eragon's palm. He grinned. Standing here listening to Arya speak, he felt the most at peace since he had left Alagaesia.

Arya watched him quizzically, "I'm surprised you haven't heard of these," she said finally, "I thought they were known throughout the land. Where is it that you are from?"

Eragon, with his back to Arya, froze. Swallowing quickly and racking his brain for acceptable phrases in the Ancient Language, he slowly turned around. Arya, however, was no longer paying attention to him. The flower that had so recently burst into life around her wrist upon Eragon's entrance had finally developed its coloring. It was now pure white in the center. Around its edges, it seemed almost to have been dipped in a dark blue ink, so dark as to be easily mistaken with black.

"Can you tell me what it means?" Eragon asked softly, after a moment, as she stared at the blossom intently.

She didn't respond for so long that he started to believe she was going to ignore him. "One of our spellcasters," she said finally, "devoted several decades to studying the colors and what they might signify." She looked up at him. "Yours… has no color. I can tell you nothing."

Arya eyed him searchingly. Eragon returned the gaze, heart in his throat. Perhaps he should tell her…? But no. A voice of reason spoke clearly in his mind. Nothing good could come from revealing his identity. Nothing. Nothing. He worked hard to convince himself.

"Who are you?" she asked almost accusingly, slowly standing up.

Her eyes burned into his own, and he swallowed reflexively. Almost panicking, he looked away from her flashing gaze. His eyes wandered through the flowers, settling on a single blossom near the ground. It was small, though perfectly formed. In contrast to all the other bright flowers that filled the side of the hall, it was quite nearly black.

"Is that one yours?" he asked abruptly, without thinking through the question. He took her astonished silence as a affirmation. Stepping forward, he stooped down and gently picked up the flower. On closer look, the inside base of the petals was a pale grey that radiated out and quickly faded into the blue-black shade that edged his own.

A vise-like grip upon his wrist startled him. Glancing up, he realized her face was only inches from his. Her eyes flicked from her flower to his eyes and back again. Abruptly, she flipped his hand over, exposing the palm of his left hand and the gedway ignasia that shone upon it, despite his best attempts to block its silvery sheen with magic.

He froze. Arya also became very still. For a single moment, she stared at the mark on his palm. Her gaze met his for the briefest of instances, and he was shocked at its coldness. Dropping his arm unceremoniously, she spun on her heel and strode calmly from the hall.

The flowers in Eragon's hands seemed to shrivel slightly in the frigid air of her departure. They retreated back towards the safety of the ground. He stood as if he himself were rooted to the ground. A sick feeling twisted in his stomach.


	5. Chapter 5

_Seeing as I'll be out of town tomorrow, I'll probably post both this chapter and the final chapter today. Just have to finish editing it, so the story will be finished tonight... Depending on your time zone I guess. _

_I love the kind reviews I've been receiving from you all. __Hope this chapter is as fun to read as it was to write._

* * *

He returned to the outskirts of Ellesmera and waited there for the next day, lost in a fog of self-pity, until Saphira found him.

_Oh, Little One,_ she murmured, her joy at reuniting with Firnen lessening in the face of Eragon's pain.

_No,_ he replied gently, _be happy. I am happy that you have enjoyed this time. But, when you are ready, let us leave quickly. I do not wish to tarry here._

While she spent several hours hunting, Eragon requested a pack of food from some of the elven cooks. The other celebrants of the Agaeti Blodhren were beginning to wake, emerging lightly from their tree homes into the afternoon air. Drinking in the sight of so many faces one final time, he turned from the city and set off across the clearing to where Saphira waited, hidden a league away in the trees.

A murmur rose up suddenly behind him. Half-turning, he beheld in shock a sight he never thought he'd see again. Arya, arrayed in the same style of black clothing in which she'd fought at Eragon's side one hundred years before, was moving rapidly through the massed elven population, which quickly parted to allow her through. She met Eragon's eyes.

"There is a custom," she proclaimed in a ringing tone that, while not loud, carried clearly through the air, "amongst the people of Alagaesia—whether dwarf, man, or elf—to bid farewell to their friends upon their departure to far-away lands." She strode across the field, one hand upon her hip and dangerously close to her sword and her eyes flashing, "Or have you forgotten so quickly?" she demanded.

Every elf in the vicinity froze, their faces like marble statues and their eyes wide as they stared at the two figures, one in blue, one in black.

Eragon's breath caught in his throat at the sight of Arya's avenging fury and his own hand inched reflexively nearer Brisingr. He stifled the urge to gulp. "I am neither dwarf nor man nor elf," he respondedly quietly, "And if I have not yet greeted anyone as myself, what use can there be to say farewell?" He was rather proud of that cool statement.

She was standing quite close to him by now, expressionless, but made no answer. As the seconds dragged on, Eragon felt compelled to speak.

"I just…" He hesitated.

She still waited for his answer.

"I didn't want to bother you," he finished lamely.

"_Bother_ me?" she asked quietly, but fiercely. "Fool."

The comment stung, and he knew, suddenly and intuitively, that she was about to walk away.

"Wait!"

"I haven't moved," she said flatly.

"You were about to." She didn't respond. "Look, I…" he sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair, "I didn't… know if you even wanted to see me. If you cared. I mean, it's been a long time," he smiled faintly, a little crookedly.

She stared at him, then pivoted on her heel and walked away.

"Called that," he couldn't help but mutter.

She heard him. Her back stiffened sharply and her hands clenched into fists. Turning back around, she marched over towards him.

Before she could say anything, however, he began to speak, "Well, I never thought I'd come back and it's been so long that… What I mean is that I didn't expect…" with each phrase, he floundered more deeply. All he'd sought was the opportunity to see her again. How had everything spun so far out of control? "I just thought you wouldn't care," he said finally.

As he finished his last few words, something in her eyes snapped. Her hand twitched and his followed, actions faster than thought.

The next moment, their crossed blades appeared in the air between them.

Her blade was blocked, he realized as the sound of muted metal upon his own sword rang dully.

The irrational part of his mind that had feared she would kill him breathed a sigh of relief.

He murmured quickly the spell to shield the edge of his own weapon. The instant he finished doing so, Arya placed a bare hand on the flat of her blade, and using both hands, slapped both Eragon and his sword backwards.

He wheeled to the right, throwing up his sword to block hers as it sheared at his head. Straightening up, he parried another blow and took a quick step back to create space. She was right there with him, though, moving her feet forward even as he shifted his own weight back.

The next several strikes moved too quickly to remember, a numbing series of blurring metal and the bell-like clanging of metal upon metal. They did not react to each other's blows but rather predicted the other's next several moves, a swordfight elevated intellectually to the level of a chess game.

Eragon became increasingly more nervous as the fight continued. Just because she would not kill him did not mean that she was averse to inflict a significant amount of pain.

Sweat dripped slowly down his forehead and into his left eye. In the partial second that it took to blink, she struck him sharply on his hip.

He froze. Her eyes locked onto his own, and she took a half step back, raising her sword again.

"How could you think that?" she snapped before their swords met once again.

Think what? It took Eragon the better part of the next five minutes to realize that she was responding to his earlier comment, and even longer to come up with an answer in between dodging blows and returning parries.

"I don't know," he managed to say at one point, as their blades locked and each strained to push the other back, "I just felt that way."

"That's ridiculous!" she hissed as they separated.

"It's been years."

"And whose fault is that?" She swung her sword down in a sweeping motion that, if unchecked, would have split him in half.

He frantically blocked the blow and whipped his blade at her neck. She stopped it with a steely clang. "What makes it mine?" he demanded

"_You_ left." He stared at her, lowering his sword for a fraction of a second. Did she mean…?

"You didn't want me to?" he asked. Her eyes narrowed and she responded with a vicious attack that resulted in Eragon receving a smart rap on the back of the head.

"I didn't say that!" she hissed.

"Then what?" he asked as his head rang.

"No contact in over nine decades. Then you return and ignore us? Hide? As if we're nothing to you?" She lowered her the tip of her sword into the ground and leaned on the crosspieces.

"I didn't mean intend to offend you," he attempted to pacify her. Somehow, he got the feeling that a lot more than his lack of saying goodbye was making her furious.

"No? Then what was your goal?" The question hung in the air.

"I just—" wanted to see you again, his mind screamed. He searched frantically for a more acceptable answer, but those words seemed suddenly to be the only thing he could think of.

Arya's sword was lowered, but her eyes still burned into his. A flicker of movement to the left caught his eye, and he was astonished to see the amount of elves who had silently watched their combat. They ringed him and Arya in an vast circle.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, sincerely.

"You're sorry?" repeated Arya, almost in amusement.

"I didn't think."

"You didn't?" she replied in the same tone as before.

Eragon was starting to become angry as well. "Fine!" he snapped recklessly, now speaking in a voice too soft to be heard by even the nearest elves, "You know why I didn't say anything! Because _nothing's changed_. Because I don't think I could handle you looking at me like a long-lost friend when," he hesitated, "I'm still in love with you." By the end, his tone was more matter-of-fact than anything else. Perhaps he should not have said the truth, but he was no longer a child. He could handle rejection, and he would no longer tiptoe around reality, making vague comments behind which he could pretend he hadn't meant if she didn't feel the same way.

And she didn't feel the same way. Clearly, she never had and never would. The realization was a sudden slap in the face, but brought with it a sense of lucidity. He had spoken truer than he had known at the time. Now his actions had a clear instigator. He had been acting to protect his pride. Pride now thoroughly ground into the dirt, foolish hopes now thoroughly dashed, he could return to Mor'ranr without any regrets or what-ifs. He had played all his cards.

Arya stood before him, still as a statue. Her face was still flushed from their combat, and her dark hair was flung over her shoulders. Her expression was as impassive as he had ever seen, but the fight seemed to have left her.

Still feeling the acute bitterness of disappointment, he realized he wanted nothing more than to leave and never return. "I'm sorry, Arya. I was a fool then. I am still one now. Some things never change." He shrugged half-heartedly. "I understand that now." Bowing and twisting his hand over his heart, he spoke the goodbye that she had so violently requested, "Atra esterni ono thelduin."

She stared piercingly into his eyes. It seemed for a long moment as though she would not return his farewell. "Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr," she murmured finally.

"Un du evarinya ono varda," he said softly, meeting her gaze. This final glance would have to last him a lifetime. Ritual formality complete, he turned to leave. A not-so-small part of his mind wished that she would call out to him. Stop him. Attack him by sword again. A larger part knew just how unrealistic that hope was. He slipped quietly across the grassy clearing, hearing nothing more than his own muted footfalls.

Eragon did not break his stride or turn for even an instant. If he had, he might have seen the curious combination of despair and sheer astonishment upon Arya's face that described more eloquently than any words the mix of emotions she felt. If he had turned, he might have seen the elves staring wide-eyed and silent at their queen as she watched the retreating figure slowly disappear into the trees. If he had turned, he might have seen the half-step forward that she took in his direction, and the helpless expression on her face as she realized she could not finish that step.

But he did not turn. He found Saphira where she waited, and they took to the skies without a word.


	6. Chapter 6

_I was quite nervous about posting this story and almost didn't go through with it. I'm glad I did, and that you guys took the time to review it. Let me know if there's something you'd like to see in a future story… I just may get around to it one of these days. _

_Thanks!_

_—Kathryn _

* * *

And so it was that Eragon arrived in Ceris, the elven outpost, and spent several days waiting there for the other elves to make their way back. Blodhgarm and the others had reveled in the festivities even more than he, and this was evident in the week it took for them to assemble at his makeshift camp. They stumbled into the clearing in groups of two and three, staggering slightly about and squinting their eyes nearly shut to avoid the sunlight. Eragon, reminded of the behavior of hung-over humans, only shook his head.

They spent their final night in the open, rejecting the available tent in favor of the beauty of the night sky. Eragon barely slept. Instead, he watched the constellations spin slowly across the sky until the coming dawn obscured the starlight. Early the next morning, they packed their bags and prepared to leave.

With a heavy heart, Eragon strapped several packs onto Saphira. A new, impressionable dwarven rider was to accompany them, and he watched Eragon's every move in awe. Eragon found it necessary to actually walk around the young dwarf to fetch the various packs and pieces of Saphira's saddle, as the new Rider seemed unable to do anything more than stare.

He felt numb. There was no other word to describe his emotions. The world was flat, and the future held very little hope. He hadn't realized how much time he had spent looking forward to this trip. But now it was over. Now, everything was over.

_Eragon. _Saphira admonished him gently.

He grunted wordlessly, acknowledging her point but unwilling to force himself out of his own private misery.

He could hear Blodhgarm behind him, cursing in his lyrical, lilting voice as he attempted to package various items for transport in the awaiting elven ship. He'd picked up the habit of foul language from their first Rider trainee—the Urgal—and from the endless, lonely days of life on Mor'ranr. Some particularly inventive phrases caused the hint of a smile to flit across Eragon's face. Shaking his head, he continued checking the straps, as Saphira first complained about the stomach belt, and then a leg connecting piece.

Suddenly, Blodhgarm fell abruptly silent in the midst of a highly-colorful description. The silence was absolute. This fact sunk slowly into Eragon's consciousness, but when he finally took note, a flutter of worry raced through his stomach. Hand on his sword, he turned quickly around.

The elves silently ringed the circle of tents, watching the figure who stood in the midst of them in silent respect.

Eragon froze in astonishment. One hundred years before, he would have stared in open-mouthed surprise, but now he settled for a slight bow. "Your Majesty."

Arya shook her head with a hint of amusement, stepping forward until she stood no more than a few inches from him. As she was quite nearly the same height as Eragon, he could not escape her piercing gaze. She reached up and cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand. He flinched slightly at the unexpected contact and his heart skipped a beat.

"I was wrong," she said in a low, fierce voice, "I took the throne out of a sense of obligation, and it was not meant for me. It was a mistake, but I cannot now go back. I will rule here as long as I must. And you also must raise the Riders to their former glory. You cannot stay."

"I know," he responded automatically and defensively.

She smiled bitterly and continued, "But I was a fool to believe I could forget you so quickly." A pause dragged on.

His breath caught in his throat as what she said filtered through his consciousness. "I... have missed you," he admitted. Eragon was aware of the surrounding audience and strove to speak quietly.

Her smile was not quite so bitter this time. "It will not be one hundred years this time. Promise me that." Her tone left no room for refusal.

"I will be back," he promised, "And you, come visit. Meet the dragons," he smiled, gently covering her hand with his own.

Her smile faded, and she looked so serious that he almost took his hand away from hers in fear of her possible annoyance. "Eragon… You don't understand."

His stomach clenched, and this time he did drop his hand. Of course. He'd assumed too much. But he hadn't asked for anything more than a state visit! Maybe she'd read between the lines. "Oh, I don't mean it that way," he said politely, preparing himself for her hasty withdrawal. Fool. Fool. Fool.

"No!" Arya seemed almost agitated, "I only meant…" she paused and seemed to recollect herself. Her eyes searched his face, reading the hurt and helplessness inscribed clearly across it. Her gaze dropped to the ground for a long moment. She seemed to make up her mind. "Eragon," she said, motioning with a slight tilt of the head to the dozen or so elves, single dwarf, and three dragons massed around them, albeit at a respectful distance, "Elves are a private people."

"Yes," he murmured with false calm, a little irritated that she had been the one to touch his face and then freak out on him.

"You remember that?" her eyes almost seemed to flash fire, "Then understand the meaning of this." She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.

A heartbeat later, she pulled back, and while he continued to stare at her in shock, began to speak again. "I will visit. And I'm sure it will be interesting to meet the dragons. But they are not the reason for my coming."

Eragon risked reaching for her hand a second time, "I thought you'd never…" he trailed off.

She shook her head. "Do not try to put a name to it. For it can never be. I didn't realize it myself until I..." She smirked, "I've never lost my temper that badly. Never." She placed her hands on either side of his face and kissed him again. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him in a moment that seemed outside of time.

Eventually, she leaned back, though she made no movement to break free from his embrace. She dropped her forehead onto his shoulder for a moment, then glanced back up as if to memorize his features. Kissing him briefly on the cheek, she took a step back.

"Visit soon," he asked, once he found his voice, utterly ignoring the astonished and somewhat disapproving faces of the onlookers. Blodhgarm, however, seemed amused.

"I will," she promised, and he noted that she too seemed to resolutely ignore the presence of the others. Her hand found his and they stood there, silently. Her green eyes stared straight into his own. Finally, she dropped his hand and walked away with measured steps. He watched her disappear into the trees.

The other elves left, but he delayed his departure for several more hours. Firnen and Saphira danced in the air, twirling about in flight just as his painting for the Agaeti Blodhren had so accurately foreshadowed.

When Eragon left, finally, it was not with the despair of a lonely century, but with the accompaniment of hope.

A hundred years were dust in the wind, but the next hundred were full of promise.


End file.
